


Ecdysiasm

by Petra



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Emotion Manipulation, F/M, Mindfuck, Romance, kink bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-27
Updated: 2010-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:09:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petra/pseuds/Petra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex knows there is something odd about Keats on a visceral level because she's no fool no matter how much of Luigi's house wine she's had, but she expects him to be just like any other man once she's got her hands down his trousers. (season 3, vague spoilers)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ecdysiasm

**Author's Note:**

> Set during s3, no major spoilers. Emotion manipulation for Kink Bingo and [](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**thatyourefuse**](http://thatyourefuse.dreamwidth.org/). Thanks to [](http://d-generate-girl.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**d_generate_girl**](http://d-generate-girl.dreamwidth.org/) for prereading. An ecdysiast is one who or that which sheds its skin.

  
Alex is used to working with men, drinking with men, and sleeping with men. The more she does the first, the more she does the second, the more she does the third, with a few notable exceptions. She knows how to read them as well as anyone with her calfskin on the wall--not that she has it to hand, these days, but that's not her fault--and she knows how to work them.

She's not expecting there to be something odd about Jim Keats the first time she's drinking with him. She knows there is on a visceral level because she's no fool no matter how much of Luigi's house wine she's had, but she expects him to be just like any other man once she's got her hands down his trousers.

That's the sticking point, right there, the trousers, because he kisses her light as a date in the first form and ducks away from her before she can get anywhere near his zip. "Thank you for a wonderful evening," he says, and God, that smile. She wants him, here and now, and never mind what that would do for their working relationship.

"You're not going already."

"I'm afraid I am." Jim gives her a smile, a bit sad, a bit hopeful, and opens the door to go back downstairs. "Good night, Alex."

She stares at him. "Good night."

He's gone before she can think to ask what's wrong with her. It's not her hair, it's not her flat, it's not her outfit, she's sure of all of those things. If it were her personality, would he have come close enough to kiss in the first place? Probably not. She puts together an outfit that's nothing like her plain shirt-and-trousers ensemble for the next day, figuring that if he won't say anything about a miniskirt, at least Gene will notice.

Alex holds it up and frowns at herself in the mirror. She's almost certain that she hasn't made Gene what he is, that Sam Tyler didn't either, but whatever he is, he's no one whose compliments should give her ego a thrill. Still, it will be better than nothing if it turns out that Jim's not interested in that sort of thing from her, whatever the reason.

"Jesus," Gene says the next day, as soon as he sees her. "Are you going undercover today, Bolls? Modeling nylons and knickers?"

She doesn't smile at that for more than half a second. "I needed a change," she says.

Gene raises his eyebrows. "Don't change anymore."

Alex pretends she hasn't heard that and takes out her notes on her most recent case. It's some hours before Jim comes in, looking dapper and harried as normal. She hardly remembers to stand and greet him, though when she does, he gives her a once-over and smiles as though he's as pleased to see her as he was last night, just before she kissed him. "Good morning, Alex," he says.

She's getting used to the sound of him saying her name, more used to it than she's ever been to the odd occasion when Gene does it. "Good morning. What can we do for you today?"

He looks round the room and points to Ralph Guernsey. "Oh, just another routine interview. DC Guernsey, if you would be so kind?" Before he goes, he gives Alex another warm smile.

Whatever happened when he kissed her, he hasn't tired of her, then, or decided she's not worth his attention. That's something.

"You're out to lunch already, are you, Drake?" Gene says irritably.

She turns to him, but he's not looking at her. He's watching Jim go, scowling until well after the door has closed. "Sorry, Guv. What do you need?"

"Some help from my DI on the most recent case would be good for starters, if you can find her. Silly cow spends half her time over the moon."

It's not even close to true, not anymore, and he knows it as well as she does. She spends half her time drunk, still, but then so does he, so he's got no call to complain of her behavior. "Which case is that?" she asks, and Gene sighs and brings her up to speed.

Jim is there when she's at the bottom of the last glass of wine she'll let herself have, or the last glass after the previous last glass, or was that two. Gene has lapsed into silence for once and has been frowning at her even more sullenly than normal for the last ten, twenty, thirty minutes, and that's part of why this is the very last glass of wine for the night. If she doesn't have company worth keeping, she has no reason to keep drinking.

Gene hasn't fallen into the work-drink-shag cycle with her for nearly a year, though they never talked about breaking things off, just as they never mentioned that they were going to begin. If he's going to fall quiet now, too, she may as well do what she does, which is turn to Jim with a smile that says she was alone at that table--she'd have had more wine if she had been, damn it, Gene--and take his hand when he offers it, gentleman-like, to help her up.

"Night, Gene," Jim says, and Gene growls something in response. If there are words there at all, Alex can't work them out.

"Fancy meeting you here," she says to Jim, who still has hold of her hand and seems to be seeing her home, for all that's just upstairs. Maybe he's thought better of the previous night.

Jim smiles at her and guides her across the restaurant. "I came to see you," he says, and she knew that, but hearing it is especially nice. She feels like she's gliding like a dancer, which is never a good sign if she's this drunk, so she puts a bit more thought into where she puts her feet and manages to make it to the stairs without tripping too much.

"So," she says, back at her door, when she's unlocked it with a minor victory of focus over poor dexterity. "Would you like to come in? Have a nightcap? Tea?"

She doesn't mean the latter two, but he brightens so much at the offer of a cuppa that she finds herself brewing it anyway. "I don't think I told you what a lovely home you have before," he says, and picks up a picture off her shelf.

It's not a photograph of anyone she knows, not her family or anyone important. "Thank you, but this isn't really my home."

Jim sets the picture down and comes over to her, takes her hand like he wants to dance with her there in the tiny kitchen. "I know, Alex, but it's as close as we can get just now."

Having said that, she doesn't remember what her home looks like. She knows this isn't it, but she isn't sure how she knows that from second to second. She's been living there for years. "I quite like the bedroom," she offers.

He smiles at her as he did the night before, looking fond and faintly disappointed. "This is fine for now, thank you."

She entertains the notion of shagging him against the wall, peeling down his pressed trousers that are still holding a crease at this hour of the night and throwing herself on him, propriety and good behavior be damned. Jim kisses her before she gets him anywhere near one of the walls that's bare enough for it, hands light on her shoulders. "And now you're here and safe, I should be off."

Alex makes a grab for his arse, but he's out of range before she touches it. "So soon?"

"I think so, yes." Jim gives her another smile from the doorway and goes, leaving her to swear a blue streak and lock up behind him. She can't work out why she cares what he thinks of her, but clearly he thinks she's ridiculously easy. So easy he can string her along.

She'll show him, then. The next time that man wants a kiss, he will have to whistle for it.

Alex's resolve breaks by morning, or, more properly, by eleven fifteen that night, which is when she comes with her fingers on her clit and Jim's sad-hopeful smile in her thoughts. But when she's telling him what to do, that smile's between her thighs doing some good. The morning only makes it worse with the red poppies on her desk, along with a note: "Thank you for all that you do. -- J. K."

She hasn't found flowers since Operation Rose, and she hasn't missed it as such, but it's a sweet gesture.

"What in the hell's that?" Gene asks, leaning over her shoulder.

She hides the card in her hand. "They're called flowers, Guv. Sometimes civilized men send them to women as a gesture of affection or gratitude."

Gene shakes his head. "You've been banging the rubber-heeler, have you?"

Alex flushes more than she thinks she would if it were actually true. "What, DCI Keats? No."

"Then what're the flowers for?"

She sniffs and shows him the card. "It's good to be appreciated every now and then."

Gene leans in close enough that she can smell the smoke in his hair. "Christ preserve us. If you want me to appreciate you, Bolly Kecks, you have to earn it."

Alex frowns at him. If he were a construct, she'd understand him, just as if Jim were, she'd have had it off with him that first night and no messing around. "If I haven't done that yet, I am damned if I know what you want from me, here."

"Stop mooning about and get to work," Gene says, and flicks one of the flowers with his finger as he goes into his office.

"I think they're lovely," Shaz says when Gene has gone.

Alex smiles. "Thank you, Shaz. Do you have that file on Peter Hallow to hand?"

"Right here, ma'am."

Jim doesn't come to CID until after lunchtime, when he looks from the flowers on Alex's desk to her face and gives her a hopeful look. She'd resolved not to smile at him last night, but that was while she was thoroughly pissed. She's sober now, and she does appreciate him and his gesture, so she smiles.

"I'm looking for Terrence Erikson," he says, and while DC Erikson puts away his work and looks lively, Jim takes a moment to sniff the flowers, though they have no particular scent as far as Alex has noticed.

"Thank you," Alex says. "They're lovely."

Jim smiles. "They made me think of you."

She can't work out why that would be, but he's clearly flirting by saying so. "Would you like to have dinner?" she asks. "Anything in the world as long as it's not Italian?"

Jim winces. "Not tonight, sorry. I have plans."

Alex takes a breath instead of asking what those might be, and Erikson comes up to them in the meantime. "I'm ready, sir," he says.

"Goodbye," Alex says, and Jim gives her another smile--is it more noncommittal than the others?--as he goes.

"If you're not off snogging Jimbo, I need you," Gene says from his office.

She tries to put the whole thing out of her mind, but she can't bring herself to toss the flowers out. She finds petals among her paperwork for days, days she spends dealing with every day things: missing people, dying people, dead people.

Jim doesn't come to Luigi's for a week, by which time she has almost convinced herself that he was only being friendly before. She'd still believe it, except that this time they talk until midnight, until Luigi says, "Signorina Alex, I do love you, but if you would go upstairs, I would be ever so grateful."

That makes Jim laugh and tip Luigi some huge sum. Alex doesn't count it, but she knows it's 1983, knows that a stack of bills of any sort are too much no matter how much they've had to drink. "Buona notte e sogni d'oro," he says to Luigi, who smiles.

"Buona notte, signore Jim."

Alex sticks with plain old, "Good night, Luigi," because her Italian is strictly for menus, but if Jim's in an expansive mood, maybe they'll get farther.

They do. His hand is very nearly on her breast before he breaks off the kiss--the third kiss of the night, at that--and says, "Thank you for a splendid evening."

"We could have an even splendider--more splendid--one if you'd stay," she says. "I really don't mind."

She's beginning to despise that smile. "I want to treat you as respectfully as you deserve," Jim says, and the next time he comes through her door she's locking it behind him so he can't duck out it before she catches him.

Fuck respect, fuck him, fuck this whole universe. But especially fuck him, because she'd really like to, and she doesn't know what's gone wrong that he doesn't seem to notice, or doesn't seem to care.

She's furious all night and all the next day, just in time to deal with the arsonist-bomber, which makes her wonder what in the hell's got into her that her head is so far out of the game, caught up in something like a romance when there is a whole world of other things to worry about.

Alex promises herself not to ask Gene if he gets distracted from work by romance. She knows the answer to that: fucking hell yes, blowjobs yes if the bird's not got her hair tied back proper, handjobs not really, and romance is dead as a doornail, Bolly.

When there's a moment--when she's drunk enough and tired enough of all this nonsense, when Gene isn't staring at her like he knows she's got an itch in her knickers and too much pride to ask him to scratch it again--she drags Jim into an interview room by telling him she's found something out about Sam Tyler. That catches his attention better than flashing would've, though it means that when she pins him against the door and kisses him, presses her breasts against him and tries to make him realize that she's real, he splutters in surprise for the first three seconds.

"I thought you had something to tell me," Jim says, when she lets him go, as if she hasn't told him a thousand things in the last minute alone, with her hands finally on his arse--not bad--and her tongue in his mouth--he's been at Gene's scotch, she'd swear to it.

"Have dinner with me tonight," she says, though she means "Have sex with me tonight." "Please. I could use a break from all this."

"Tomorrow," he says, and she should've held him against the wall, not the door, because he's slipping away again. "Seven-o'clock. I'll pick you up."

Alex scowls after him.

The next several days and nights are a mess, what with one thing and another, all the people who aren't who they say they are, aren't who they should be pretending to be, and it's the following Wednesday before Alex realizes that her theoretical date has fallen entirely by the wayside and Jim hasn't said a word.

She means to address it with him, but trust Northerners to arrive at precisely the wrong moment and throw her off again. Alex is never sure whether she's happiest when work is more important than anything and there are mysteries she has to chase down, but sufficient stress is not the same thing as sufficient sleep or sufficient relaxation.

So when there's a moment, when she can get Jim alone, apart from the team and from Gene, she takes it.

She takes him right back to her flat--to hell with dinner, and she's got a bottle or five for the nights when she needs them--and takes her shirt off with one hand while she's locking the door with the other. "I respect you," she tells him. "I like you--I really like you--and you frighten me considerably less than some people I could mention. And I have had it, absolutely had it, with this game. Are you staying or leaving?" Alex unfastens her bra and peels it off after too many hours in it. There are red lines on her skin, she doesn't have to look to see that, and she feels exhausted by everything she doesn't understand yet. If she can have one thing, just one, that she can make sense of, that will help.

"Oh, Alex. You're so lovely. I couldn't leave you like this." He kisses her, touches her breasts, finally, and strokes her nipples like he knows what they're for. So that takes care of that doubt, at least.

It becomes excruciatingly clear over the next few hours that whatever he was waiting for, whatever he wanted from her, he's got it now, though Alex is hardly going to interrupt him to ask what the delay was about. Not with his fingers on her, in her; not with his tongue teasing at her until she screams and clutches at his head, half-smothering him with her thighs; not when she's so shaky and blissful she can barely sit upright but he holds her up, helps her move, eases himself inside her for the second time and kisses her, saying her name over and over again.

Alex loses track of everything: how many times she's come, how many times he has, the edges of her bed and the edges of her self. But all good things must come to an end eventually. She finds herself with her head in his lap and a sense of closure rather than lull. He's sitting up, smoking, stroking her sweat-stringy hair and smiling at her with no hint of sadness for once. "That was amazing," she says, and she thinks that now is the time, the only time she could get answers from him. Even so, there may be only a few answers he'll give her. "Why did you lead me on so long?"

"So it would be amazing." He strokes her cheek with his fingers. "I want to be so much more to you than a one-night stand, Alex."

The thought that she could have had him back at the beginning makes her shiver. "It's a bit more complicated than that, isn't it? But it always has been."

"Quite a bit more, yes." Jim stubs out his cigarette. "I should be going."

She sits up and bites her tongue against the urge to invite him to stay. "Come again sometime."

'So soon?" He laughs at his joke, and she smiles and moves out of his way. He gets up and already the room feels emptier, for all he's standing there, finding his socks. "But honestly, Alex, thank you."

"No, thank you." Alex stands when he's dressed, all but his jacket, which must have landed somewhere in the living room, and kisses him. "See you in the morning."

He looks at his watch, then grins. "Not soon enough for me, but what can you do? Sleep well."

"And you."

If the morning could have been any worse, Alex doesn't know how.

By the funeral, she has resolved never to touch him again. There are better men--there is a better man--damn him. Damn them both.


End file.
